


Broken

by fredbassett



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-10-14 15:22:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17511056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fredbassett/pseuds/fredbassett
Summary: After the Battle of Five Armies, Bilbo faces the prospect of losing Thorin.





	Broken

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dunderklumpen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dunderklumpen/gifts).



> This is a sequel to [Barbed](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1143030) and [Braided](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13332768).

“Hail, Thorin,” Gandalf said as he entered a tent that had been erected away from the field of battle. “I have brought him.”

Bilbo walked in behind the wizard, his head still throbbing. He’d spent a miserable night amongst the dead on Ravenhill, shielding by the ring from the eyes of those who had searched in vain for him.

The battle was over. Elves, men and dwarves had triumphed, aided by Beorn and the eagles.

The man who had carried Bilbo down from the hill of the slain had told Bilbo that at the height of the conflict, Thorin had brought Bolg and this bodyguard to bay but had been unable to break their ranks. Thorin and his followers had ended up surrounded on a low hill, with Thorin pieced by many spears, whilst Fili and Kili stood above his body, faces grim as they swung their axes time after time, yelling aloud the battle cry of the dwarves until Beorn, in the shape of a giant bear, had broken the ranks of the wolves and goblins and borne Thorin out of the fray.

Now Thorin lay on a low bed, his broken armour and notched axe cast aside, bloodstained bandages swathing his shoulders and his chest. His eyes fluttered open at Gandalf’s words, but his gaze was unfocussed.

Bilbo hurried to his side, regretting the harsh words that lay between them, wishing he had never come on this adventure, wishing he had remained behind in Bag End and that he had never seen mountains, let alone the one in whose shadow this encampment lay. Mountains were cruel, too cruel for a Hobbit from the Shire. He longed for the quiet hills of his homeland, nothing more.

“Farewell, good thief,” Thorin said, his words rasping in his throat.

Bilbo went to one knee beside him and gently clasped the bloodied hand lying on the light coverlet that had been thrown over the stricken dwarf. “No, King under the Mountain, it shall not end like this. Too much lies between us for it to end here.” He bent his head and, heedless of Gandalf’s presence, put his lips lightly to Thorin brow and kissed him. “You are wounded in body and sore in spirit, but I am not willing to let you go.”

“I am not sure that choice is yours to make, my dear hobbit.” Despite his many wounds, Thorin smiled, and Bilbo felt the grip of his fingers strengthen.

“Nonsense,” Bilbo said as briskly as he could, while feeling anything but hopeful. “Are there no healers in this camp?” He looked around and fixed the man who had brought him down from Ravenhill with a hard stare. “Fetch me an Elven healer, even I have heard stories of their power.” The man turned away to do Bilbo’s bidding. Next, he turned to Gandalf, taking in the wizard’s battered appearance, one arm in a sling before him, his eyes weary. Bilbo felt the cold grip of fear. They relied on Gandalf so much, surely he would not let them lose Thorin, not now, not like this.

“You are a stubborn Hobbit.” Thorin lifted his arm and carried Bilbo’s hand to his lips, pressing a light kiss to his fingers then, the effort too much for him, Thorin’s arm fell back down to his wounded chest and he grimaced in pain.

“And you are the most stubborn dwarf that ever lived.” Bilbo could feel tears tracking down his grimy face as he spoke. “Do not leave me, Thorin. Fight, I beg you. Fight the hardest battle of your life and live. It would be a bleak world indeed without Thorin Oakenshield.”

“Then let us see what we can do to avoid such bleakness,” a fresh voice said.

Bilbo turned and found himself looking up at the Elvenking. Even with a smear of blood on one cheek, torn robes and dirt on his face, the elf’s presence lifted Bilbo’s spirits. He had joined the elves on Ravenhill, the Tookish part of his nature deciding to make his last stand with the elves, defending the king. Maybe that small service might now count in his favour.

“Bring clean water for washing!” Gandalf ordered. “It seems that Thorin Oakenshield might not be journeying to his fathers in the hall of waiting after all.” The wizard went to his knees beside Thorin. “I thought you had given up this fight, King under the Mountain.”

“He is not giving up!” Bilboa said, brushing Thorin’s dark hair back from his face. “You have ruined my neat braids, I’ll have you know,” he said, addressing his words to the stricken dwarf, “But they can be redone. And I would much prefer to re-braid them on a living dwarf. I have seen enough death to last me a lifetime. I do not wish to add you to that tally.” Thorin’s hair was silky to the touch, despite the blood in places. Bilbo reflected that he really did not like blood, especially not when it was Thorin’s.

A tall elf carried a bowl of steaming water into the tent and laid it down on the floor. The Elvenking took some leaves from a pouch and cast them into the water. A bright fragrance filled the tent, masking the sharp copper tang of blood. The smell of new leaves on a pine tree filled Bilbo’s nostrils and the pain that had been hammering inside his head since he’d woken up cold and alone on Ravenhill, receded, leaving him clearer of head and sharper of purpose. He was not prepared to let Thoron go. Not now, not when the gold sickness had lifted, leaving Thorin’s mind clear and leaving Bilbo hoping that bitterness and covetousness had burned away in the heat of battle.

With Gandalf’s help – the old wizard working one-handed more efficiently than many could work with two – the Elvenking gently cut the soiled bandages from Thorn’s chest, revealing the cruel stab wounds inflicted by the spears of Bolg’s guard. Blood still ran sluggishly to matt in the dark hair covering Thorin’s muscled chest.

The Elvenking handed Bilbo a cloth moistened in the fragrant water. “The hands of a lover hold more power here than mine.”

Bilbo looked at him and felt a blush rise to his cheeks. “We have not…” he stammered, unsure of what to say.

The elf smiled and it was like sunshine had finally broken through clouds after a long day of rain. “You have braided his hair. Even I know what that betokens. The rest matters not. Now clean his wounds then I will draw the flesh together.” From a small leather pouch, he took a delicate needle, already threaded.

The blood left Bilbo’s cheeks in a cold rush at what the elf’s words betokened, but he did as he had been bidden, wiping away the blood from the worst of the wounds, a bloody mess on Thorin’s side where ha goblin spear had pierced him deeply. The flow had almost stopped, but the flesh gaped widely, and it turned Bilbo’s stomach to see such hurt.

“You are lucky, King under the Mountain,” the Elvenking said softly. “None of the wounds have pierced your lungs, although your foes made a valiant attempt to turn your hide into a pincushion. Now, you’ll oblige me by taking a small draught to dull the pain of what must follow.”

The elf that had brought the hot water handed a small crystal vial to Gandalf. The wizard held it in his good hand and closed his eyes for a moment, his lips moving in silent words, then he handed the vessel to Bilbo.

As gently as he could, Bilbo lifted Thorin’s head and cradled it in the crook of one arm as he held the crystal vial to the dwarf’s lips. “Drink, beloved.”

Thorin shook his head. “If I am to leave this world, I would sooner do it with all my wits about me and my eyes on you, beloved Hobbit.”

Bilbo rolled his eyes and harrumphed theatrically. “As I have just told you, you are the most stubborn dwarf I have ever had the misfortune to encounter. Someone please fetch Balin. If he lives, maybe he can talk some sense into your thick skull.”

“Drink,” the Elvenking instructed. “It will dull the pain but not steal your senses. You have my word on that.”

Thorin’s lips curled disdainfully. “The word of an Elf?”

“Don’t start all that nonsense again!” Bilbo said sharply. “He didn’t mean it, my lord king.”

The Elvenking’s laughter was without rancour. “He most certainly did mean it, and I would be disappointed if I thought otherwise. I did throw him in my cells, and I doubt that has yet been forgotten or forgiven.” He paused, then added, “Old enmities die hard yet die they must. We fought a common foe, Dwarf King, and it was your sally that turned the tide of battle. I was hard-pressed on Ravenhill and losing ground until you and your companions swept all before you. I owe you a debt for that and would welcome the chance to discharge it. Now drink and let me tend your wounds, or we will both answer to this Hobbit. He can be fierce when pressed. I witnessed that when he stood with my warriors on Ravenhill.”

“You will most certainly answer to me if you do not do as your are bidden for once, Thorin, King under the Mountain or not.” Bilbo gently lifted Thorin’s head again and out the vial to his lips. The dwarf consented to drink, swallowing with difficulty, but despite that he succeeded in draining the contents, and as he did so, some colour returned to the waxen cheeks

Thorin looked up at Bilbo, his grey eyes clear and focussed. “If part we must, I wish to part in friendship and in love, and I would take back my harsh words and deeds at the gate. I spoke in anger and madness.”

“Consider them forgotten,” Bilbo said. “But I have told you already, we will not part this day.”

“I do believe Mr Baggins speaks the truth,” Gandalf said, as the Elven king bent to the task of closing Thorin’s many wounds.

Bilbo held tight to Thorin’s hand as the wizard and the Elvenking went to work as well. Afterwards, Bilbo had no sense of how much time had passed. He lost count of the number of times he took clean, damp cloths and handed them back bloodied, then were wrung out in clean water and handed back to him. He worked one-handed, the other still holding Thorin’s right hand, the one that had gripped his battle axe, aided by Gandalf. The fingers of the other hand that had gripped the shield lay broken and bruised, and the arm lay at an unnatural angle but they would among the last hurts to be tended.

Thorin remained conscious throughout, as he wished, but the Elvish cordial did its work and dulled the pain, although it was obvious from the way Thorin’s fingers occasionally tightened on Bilbo’s that pain was sometimes in danger of breaking through the comfort of the elven draught.

Each of the many wounds were drawn together and stitched closed, and each was anointed with a pale salve that smelt of the sharp tang of pine resin from newly-scored bark. Thorin’s left arm, his shield arm, broken under the onslaught of a goblin’s war hammer, was reset and splinted; that drew a gasp of pain from Thorin as the bones were manipulated back into place and a murmured apology from the Elvenking. As elf worked, Gandalf placed his hand on Thorin’s brow, speaking low words in a language that Bilbo did not understand.

Eventually the Elvenking stood up and surveyed their handiwork. “Truly you dwarves are a hardy breed. But what you need now is sleep, and I do not believe you will awaken in the halls of your father.”

“No, he most certainly will not!”

Bilbo prepared to settle himself more comfortably on the floor when he heard a welcome voice behind him. “You’ll rest more easily on this, laddie.” Balin held a thick fur rug in his hands. “And have none of these mighty healers seen fit to attend to the dent in your head? There is blood in your hair.”

“They have had other priorities,” Bilbo said, stroking the back of Thorin’s unbandaged hand.

“Then let me deal with that,” Balin said gruffly. “My lords,” he said to Gandalf and the Elvenking, “Fili and Kili lie in the next text amongst the most gravely wounded. They fell at the last, defending Thorin with all their strength. I think we have brought them back from the abrink, but the healers would appreciate some aid.”

The Elvenking nodded. “We have done all we can here. King under the Mountain, see you do not squander our efforts.” With that, he bowed to Thorin, and made his way out of the tent.

“My thanks, O King of Greenwood the Great,” Thorin rasped. “I am in your debt.”

The Elvenking turned, a slight smile on his lips. “No debts now lie between us.” And with that, he was gone.

Gandalf looked down at Thorin, a smile on his lined face. “I believe my decision to foist Mr Baggins on your absurd quest has been more than vindicated. You will oblige me by remaining alive, Thorin son of Thrain, for I do not release you from any obligations.” But the twinkle in his eyes belied his stern words. “Now if you will excuse me, I will see what aid I can bring your equally stubborn nephews.” He followed the Elvenking from the tent.

“Your turn now, laddie,” Balin said, in a voice that brooked no argument.

Bilbo submitted to the dwarf’s ministrations and it was Thorin’s turn to hold his hand. Balin clipped the hair around a tender spot on the top of Bilbo’s head and administered two stitches. Bilbo clenched his teeth against the pain. Thorin had endured worse without complaint. A Hobbit of the Shire could be no less stoic, and there were doubtless more deserving recipients of the elven draught.

“You’ll live,” Balin pronounced when he had finished. “You now need food and sleep in that order.”

Bilbo settled himself comfortably on the warm fur rug Balin had spread on the floor next to Thorin’s bed. “A little while ago I thought I would never again feel hunger but now…” A low growl from his stomach interrupted him and brought a slight smile to Thorin’s pale face.

“My dear hobbit, if you had lost your appetite, I would know the world was about the end in fire and slaughter,” he murmured.

“When I entered this tent, I thought it had,” Bilbo said. With his free hand he stroked Thorin’s hair and leaned over to kiss his lips. Thorin’s mouth opened to his and their tongues touched almost shyly, then Bilbo drew back, smiling fondly. “But it is rest you need, not kisses. We’ll see about more of them later, but for now be a good dwarf and go to sleep. And when you awaken drink some water, and maybe eat a little waybread, just to keep your strength up.”

Thorin’s smile held a world of warmth. “Yes, my dearest Hobbit. I am yours to command.”

Bilbo smiled back at him. “I will remind you of that in your more stubborn moments.”

“You may do so always.”

And with that, Thorin, King under the Mountain, closed his eyes and drifted into sleep.

Bilbo kissed his lips lightly, then fell to the serious business of devouring the platter of food that Balin had set down next to him.

The rest of this no longer wholly unwelcome adventure could wait until he had eaten his fill.


End file.
